Where Has Normal Insanity Gone?
by Empress of Hats
Summary: Little drabbles about a time-travelling, universe-jumping, regenerating badass named Ingrid, the just-roll-with-it military doctor and the resident sociopath of 221B Baker Street. I don't own anything except for Ingrid and the plotlines. Bits of Sherlock/OC in some and John/OC in others.
1. 42 Bullets

**This is just something that was bouncing around in my head for a while until it got so annoying that I just had to write it down and share it with you. There might be more later.**

.-o-0-O-0-o-.

It was just past midnight when someone knocked five times on the door of 221B Baker Street. John Watson was still awake thanks to his eccentric sociopath of a flat-mate Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had been without a case worthy of his attention for over a week and he was getting unusually twitchy. John walked down the stairs and was about to open the door when five more knocks resounded from the other side, along with a heaving cough a wet splat. John immediately opened the door to find an old friend of his supporting herself against the doorframe with a massive amount of silver fluid dripping down her face and on her coat. She had silver hair that was full of twigs and leaves, pale skin that was marred by scars and scratches, and deep black eyes that had a strange quality to them.

"Hey John -" she began to speak, but stopped as she began to cough again. More of the silver liquid dripped from her mouth and she wiped it on her sleeve.

"Ingrid, what the bloody hell happened to you?!" John shouted, pulling Ingrid inside as her coughing increased violently, the silver fluid splattering all over the floor and walls. Sherlock stopped abusing his violin and placed it on the sofa, poking his head out into the stairwell.

"John, what in the name-" he began, but stopped when he saw Ingrid pull off her coat. The shirt beneath had been pale green at some point in the past, but it was riddled with gunshot holes and soaked in the silver fluid that Sherlock realized was blood. Several flint-tipped arrows had poked through her midsection and were the cause of most of the heavy bleeding. John accidentally bumped one of the crude wooden shafts and Ingrid roared in pain as more blood spurted out of the hole.

"DAMMIT WATSON!" She howled, grasping an arrow and violently yanking it out. "GET ME TO A ROOM WHERE I WON'T BREAK ANYTHING IMPORTANT! I'M ABOUT TO REGENERATE!" John cursed and pulled Ingrid up the stairs and into the bathroom as she pulled the rest of the arrows out of her body. Sherlock ran after them and began to speak very fast.

"John, what the hell is going on? Where did you meet a woman who bleeds silver blood and can still live after having at least five _arrows _and _seven rounds _of bullets in her body?" Ingrid pulled off her shoes and handed them to John who quickly threw them over his shoulder and backed out of the bathroom, taking Sherlock with him.

"Well, if you'll believe me, she mistook me as Bilbo Baggins," John began but Ingrid cut him off. "And by the look on your face Sherlock Holmes you're wondering how I can be alive still? Well, it's got something to do with having five hearts-" Ingrid was cut off by another yell of pain accompanied by a spurt of silver and blue dust and light. "Shit! John, Sherlock, back up into the hallway!" Ingrid threw her arms out as more light began to stream from her arms, feet, and face until she exploded in a burst of incredible light.

Her face began to change, nose becoming longer and thinner, skin darkening a shade or two, pitch black eyes turning jade green. Her hair darkened from light silver to fiery orange streaked here and there with blood red, she grew several centimeters, and then it just stopped. There was a small cascade of clinks on the tiles as at least forty two nine millimeter rounds fell onto the floor of the bathroom.

"Whoa," Ingrid said, her voice much richer with an Irish accent. "_Whoa!_ Holy shit, I'm Irish!" she turned to the two men in the doorway, a bright smile on her face. John looked incredibly confused, and he shrugged. "I'm not even going to ask," he said tiredly, walking down the hall. Ingrid just kept smiling as she turned to Sherlock.

His face was drained of what little color it normally had, and his mouth kept opening and closing until his eyes just rolled up into his head and he fell forward. Ingrid dove forward and caught him, muttering about humans and their inability to process facts.

"Oi, John! Where do I put Sherlock, he just fainted and he's drooling on my collarbone!"

.-o-0-O-0-o-.

**As I said before, there is no point whatsoever to this. **


	2. Sherlock Holmes and the Blue Dragon

It was Christmas Eve of 1923. Sherlock Holmes was at a party yet working all at once. John Watson, his trusted colleague, was not with him as he was away from London visiting his mother. He had attended the celebration to hopefully catch a notorious jewel thief who many called 'The Blue Dragon'. She was rumored to be attending the party as to steal several choice sapphires that the hostess supposedly kept in a trunk shut up in the attic of the mansion. Sherlock had been chasing the Blue Dragon for several months, and the time before when had been in his grasp she wriggled free and left nothing behind but a kiss on the cheek in deep blue lipstick and a sheaf of paper with a dragon on it in his pocket.

Sherlock adjusted his half-mask. It was a deep purple, accented artfully with golden paint and small rhinestones. It also had a short wolf-like muzzle, a crescent moon on the forehead, and two ears. Everyone at the party was wearing masks, and the air was filled with the sounds of lighthearted chatter, the smell of wine and champagne, and the soft notes of violins and harps. The grand ball room was filled with color and sparkling jewelry. As Sherlock's dove-gray eyes flickered across the room, they fell on a fiery haired woman leaning against a column. She was wearing a deep blue gown embroidered with silver thread, a silver filigree necklace set with small sapphires, and a blue half-mask with softly curving horns, scales accented with white and a teardrop shaped sapphire set into the forehead. His eyes flickered across her half-hidden face and clothing, attempting to learn what he could from his deductions. To his surprise, Sherlock could not glean anything except that she was not born in London from the way she held herself and she spent most of her life running revealed by the way her calves were so well muscled. Wishing to learn more about this mysterious woman, Sherlock carefully maneuvered though the crowd towards her, coming to a stop and offering her a long fingered hand.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked, and she turned towards him. Now that he was closer, Sherlock could see that the bridge of her nose and cheeks were sprinkled with freckles and her eyes were such an incredible shade of blue that Sherlock could not compare it to anything he had ever seen before. The woman in blue smiled at him and took his hand, easily falling into step with the other dancers.

"So, madam," Sherlock began, but she cut him off with a laugh. "I know what you're going to ask. My name is Lady Raciel of Gallifrey." She said, her voice sonorous and rich.

"Is that in Ireland?" Sherlock asked, as he had never heard of Gallifrey.

"If you like. Now then, who, pray tell, are you?" Lady Raciel asked as Sherlock spun her about.

"I am Sherlock Holmes." He said shortly and she laughed. "That's all I'm going to get out of you, isn't it Mister Holmes?"

"Just about." Lady Raciel grinned and bowed to Sherlock as the dance ended then leaned forward to whisper in his ear. "The thrill is in the chase, never in the capture, dearest Sherlock." she then carefully brushed a feather-light kiss against his lips and disappeared into the crowd, her laugh echoing in Sherlock's ears. Sherlock glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly midnight. He wandered through the crowd and slipped into a corridor, carefully making his way up to the attic. When he shimmied up the ladder and climbed into the dusty attic, he was immediately knocked over onto his back and the trapdoor entrance to the attic snapped shut. He was about to get up when someone straddled his waist.

"Damn you, Sherlock!" she hissed though her teeth and in the light streaming though the small window, Sherlock could see fire red hair. His gasp was muffled by a hand covered in a fingerless leather glove as Lady Raciel, or the Blue Dragon as he knew her better as, pressed herself as close as she could against him, and for good reason. She drew a felt ball out of a pouch strapped to her waist and threw it at the small chest sitting on a table close to the window. An arrow flew out of a gap in the wood work of the wall and struck the ball. The Blue Dragon sighed in relief. She climbed off of Sherlock and stood aback up, collecting her felt ball and replacing it in the pouch.

"So you're the Blue Dragon?" he said, scrambling to his feet. She nodded, pulling some lock picking devices from the pouch and kneeling in front of the chest. Sherlock could now see that she had been wearing a pair of leather boots, a pair of blue canvas pants, and a silver scalemail tunic under her dress.

"Yes. But I'll have you know that the only gems I steal are actually mine. I was slain a long time ago and my hoard was spent or sold." There was a small crack as one of the tools in her hand broke. "Damn. This is a really stiff lock. Anyways, I waited until the correct moment to strike and reclaim my property." The chest clicked, and she carefully opened it. Five sapphires sparkled in the moonlight, resting on a bed of black velvet. Lady Raciel carefully plucked each one from the chest and tucked them into her sleeve.

"Well, Sherlock, what now? Those were the last of my hoard, so the Blue Dragon must disappear now." She said, and Sherlock sighed.

"I suppose I can let you get away with this one." He said, and she grinned.

"My first name is Ingrid, just so you know. And for the record, you did much better than the rest of the coppers and detectives the Queen sent after me." Sherlock made a funny noise in the back of his throat, but it quickly died when Ingrid wound her hands into his hair and pulled him into a deep kiss. They pulled apart after a minute, and Ingrid flashed him a sharp-toothed grin. She back-flipped her way over the chest and to the window, opening it and sticking her legs out.

"Godspeed, Sherlock Holmes." She said and dropped out of sight. After a moment or two her face reappeared, and she motioned to her mouth and cheek. "You've got blue lipstick all over your face. Might want to clean that off." Sherlock grinned and snapped her a two fingered salute.

"Will do."


	3. No, Sorry You're Not Bilbo!

John Watson first met Ingrid when he was a boy enjoying his Hallow's Eve dressed as a hobbit. His small bag was half-full of treats when a frighteningly tall woman dressed in pure white robes wielding a staff carved out of white wood parted the bustle of children and parents like the red sea as she strode towards him, midnight blue eyes alight and red hair blazing.

"**Bilbo Baggins!**" she thundered, stopping before him and planting her staff on the sidewalk. John had looked into her eyes and had been immersed in the world of Middle-Earth that night. The rolling hills of the Shire and the mighty peak of the Lonely Mountain flashed in the sapphire depths as the taste of Lembas and the feel of Sting's hilt in his hand were implanted into his mind. The sensations lasted a mere second before the red-haired woman had blinked and took a closer look at him.

"Oh," she said, carnelian eyebrows raising "OH! I'm sorry Arthur!" at his look of confusion, she tried again.

"Ted? No, no. Martin? Nay, you're not him either. John? Yes! That is your name my dear fellow! I sincerely apologize for the confusion." She said kneeling before him and shaking his hand.


End file.
